Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Changing my sons diaper one day I had an epiphany. There, during the deepest moments of fatherly duty, the deed that only a parent could do for his child, I experienced a fleeting moment of clarity.

My son, being stripped of his clothes, screamed to all around him. His tiny hands batted the towel under him. His legs took dangerous swipes in the air - missing my nose by mere inches. Tears, large and salty, welled up in his eyes.

And I laughed.

I laughed because at that moment I understood that I had been no different than him. I had been an infant, screaming inconsolably as I was changed on a table. My father had been changed by his . . . and so the train went back.

And what was more, when I am old and hoary, my son's son will do the same to his own, son.

Picking the baby up - the emobdiment of that eternal child that always was and always will be, kicking and screaming - fighting the demons that even he does not see . . . I kissed him and he smiled.